


The Adventure Of The Distant Relative (1890)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [118]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Inheritance, Johnlock - Freeform, Lawyers, M/M, Organized Crime, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 16:11:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11188689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: In any war, allies can be the difference between success and failure, between triumph and disaster – but every ally has their price. Sherlock employs rather unusual tactics over several thousand miles to win this particular battle.





	The Adventure Of The Distant Relative (1890)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookworm4ever81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm4ever81/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of the Ferrers documents'.

Sherlock had a beautiful face – he still has, for that matter – but when he smiled, I was truly reminded that his middle name was that of an angel. So after days of stress as his efforts against the vile Professor James Moriarty continued to wear on him, the slowly dawning smile at the recently-arrived telegraph could surely only be good news.

“What is it?” I asked hopefully.

“I am about to undertake one of the most important cases in my career”, he said quietly. “Success would put me a significant step closer to defeating my deadly rival. Failure... is unthinkable!”

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes does not fail!” I scoffed.

“You have been reading too many of your own books, doctor”, he smiled. “I am asked to go down to Ascension House and help clarify the circumstances surrounding the recent death of one Mr. Aaron Ferrers, Esquire.”

I waited, but that, apparently, was it.

“And the important part?” I asked.

“The lady requesting my services is a Miss Aliana Ferrers.”

It was going to be one of Those Mornings. Perhaps I should try levering an extra couple of coffees into him before continuing. Instead, I tried a plaintive stare. He seemed to snap out of whatever trance he was in, and smiled weakly at me.

“Miss Ferrers is the niece of one Mrs. Margaret Ball”, he said. “Queen Molly.”

“Ah, Queen of the Begg....”

I froze. I could almost see that disapproving look across the sugar-tongs, and remembered that this was the sort of lady the incurring of whose wrath could end in one getting a short and terminal tour of the Thames river-bed.

“Mendicants”, I amended, noting my friend's smile at my save. “She has asked for your help?”

“Yes”, Sherlock said. “I had hoped that such a chance would arise, but now that it has, I am not sure that I am up to it.”

I do not think that I had ever seen him so unsure as to his own abilities. I sat on the couch and looked pointedly at him, and he once again proved his angelic credentials by seemingly flying across the room into my embrace with such rapidity, the couch actually slid back slightly.

“Oof!” I gasped inelegantly. “Well, if you move as fast as that on the case, you should be fine.”

He spent some little time making himself comfortable before he let out the sort of happy sigh that would have made me do so much more for him. I would have considered just how much more, but my brain seemed suddenly intent on paddling its way up a long river in north-east Africa.

“The case is the second lucky break in a fortnight”, he said. “I am afraid that I am using up all my good fortune now, and will have none left for later, when I really need it.”

I shuddered at the thought of his eventual showdown with the vile Professor Moriarty, and pulled him closer. He whimpered again, and I lightly kissed his unruly hair.

“What was the first piece of luck?” I asked.

“Not for a young fellow named Alfred Young”, he said. “He was a mendicant, and was stabbed to death when two men considered him to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Was he?” I asked. “Wrong, I mean.”

“The important thing was that the man who stabbed him was one of Professor Moriarty's men”, he explained. “Naturally Queen Molly found out – it would have been a miracle to rank alongside the loaves and fishes thing if she had not - and was Displeased. Her subjects have always been strictly neutral when it comes to the upper criminal fraternity – she will not allow them to work for anyone she considers 'undesirable', although she has no problem with petty theft of food, say, in order to stay alive. She sent to Professor Moriarty to hand the man over, or to face Certain Unpleasant Consequences.”

I could hear the capital letters, and I already knew that when that lady talked about Consequences and being Displeased, it was high time to make sure that your will was written and that your funeral was paid for.

“I did not dare to hope that my adversary, proud man that he is, could fail to see that making an enemy of Queen Molly would be foolish”, Sherlock mused. “I can only say that he took some bad advice, and declined her request. His man did not make it to the end of the day.”

“So she is against him now?” I asked, my hopes rising.

“It is not that easy”, Sherlock said. “Mendicants function very much on the Biblical philosophy of 'an eye for an eye'. Now that the killer is dead, they will consider that that is very much that. However, this development in Middlesex gives me a chance to be of assistance to the lady, and if I succeed, then she will be able to inform her subjects that she is Pleased with me. They, being strongly inculcated with the ability to stay alive, will take the hint.”

Again, I could hear the capital.

“Mendicants are just about everywhere”, Sherlock said, “and they are excellently positioned to cause all sorts of inconveniences and annoyances to an organization as large as Professor Moriarty's. A policeman directed to the wrong street at the right time, a fire started near some highly flammable materials – my enemy's luck could suddenly turn _very_ bad. Hence I must succeed.”

“What is this case that she asks for your help in?” I asked.

“It does not sound of great import”, he said, “but then, many of my cases start out like that and often blossom into something larger. Queen Molly's niece, Miss Ferrers, is her sister Mary's sole daughter, Mary Ball having married a Mr. Frederick Ferrers of Heath Row, in Middlesex. He had married before, and although his first wife provided him with some six children, only one survived, a daughter, Penelope. The latter has recently married a Mr. Hugh West. With both Queen Molly's sister and brother-in-law's also having passed, her niece and the latter's step-sister Mrs. West looked set to inherit his estate.”

“A large estate?” I asked.

“In size but not wealth”, he said. The Ferrers family own most of the land around the village, right up to the Great West Road in places, but it is all poor quality scrub, although I understand that it has been successfully utilized as orchard land. Then again, if London keeps expanding the way it does, it may one day become prime building land. Who knows? But I doubt that that would be for many a year yet. No, it was what happened next that was surprising.”

“Mr. Ferrers died two weeks ago, and upon his burial, his will was duly read. It contained a most unpleasant surprise for both his daughters. He acknowledged that he had had a son from a brief relationship with a lady of the night in London, and that the boy had subsequently been raised by an old army friend of his who had gone to India. I should have mentioned that Mr. Ferrers had been in the British Army for some years before an injury forced his retirement; naturally he kept many contacts from his days there. The boy had lived with a Colonel Fisher, who had since died, but fortunately not until the boy had come of age. His name is Ferdinand Fisher, after his guardian, and he is now about thirty-five years of age. He has been informed that he will receive two-thirds of the estate, the other third being divided equally between his half-sisters.”

“It seems straightforward enough”, I said, “but then, so many of your cases do. At first!”

He smiled at that.

“True”, he admitted. “But at least I have someone at my side who can write me as the dashing, romantic hero, beloved by women and envied by men.”

“And most fortuitously, not bowed down by the slightest degree of modesty!” I snarked.

“True”, he said dryly. “But then, why would I be?”

I shook my head at him, but smiled.

+~+~+

The small hamlet of Heath Row lay on the far side of the county of Middlesex, and was, considering how close it lay to London, surprisingly difficult to get to. Two underground trains took us to what was then the western terminus of the District Line at Hounslow Barracks (now Hounslow West Station), and from there we still had a ride of some several miles, albeit through some pleasant countryside. Out here, as Sherlock had said, the lands seemed to have been given over more to orchards than anything else, presumably to supply the ever-growing city of London which was slowly encroaching along the Great West Road to the north. I wondered what the future held for this remote place, and for the estate that we were looking into.

Sherlock had stopped at the Baker Street post office to send a telegram, but would not tell me who to, although when I asked him if it was to his annoying lounge-lizard of a brother (who was finally out of hospital and a lot more amenable after his chastening experience of late!), he smiled knowingly. I only hoped that the rat would not appear in our case; he was most definitely an example of absence making the heart grow a fraction less detesting towards. A year without him would be very welcome. A few decades would be even better!

We had arranged to meet Miss Ferrers at her late father's house, along with the lawyer administering the estate, a Mr. Peston. I do not usually have a high regard for the legal profession (although I supposed that, like sewage workers, they are an essential part of our society), and this weasel-faced fellow in his early fifties only served to reinforce my prejudices. We were admitted into the old building, which, I noted, did not seem in very good condition, and the four of us sat around a large table. 

Sherlock turned to the lawyer.

“Can you tell me more about this son of the late Mr. Ferrers?” he asked.

“His father maintained monthly contact with his guardian through the telegraphic system”, the lawyer said. “He lives in Bombay, and has married a lady over there – a Miss Boston, the daughter of an army major. They have had two boys, Frederick and Edward, neither yet ten years of age.”

Sherlock seemed to think about that. I wondered why, but his next question distracted me for its seeming irrelevance.

“I see that you have gypsies camping on a corner of the estate.”

The lawyer blinked at him, presumably suspecting a trap, but Sherlock just stared back until he answered. Like everyone, the lawyer did not last long under that azure gaze.

“The late Mr. Ferrers did not like having them on his land”, he said, recovering, “but his father before him had always allowed it, and he once told me that he felt that it was beholden of him to continue that policy.”

Sherlock was looking at the lawyer in a way which told me that he knew something, but was not yet prepared to reveal it. The man fidgeted in his seat.

“What will become of the place now, I do not know”, he said. “I assume that young Mr. Fisher may choose to sell it and have the money forwarded to him in India. As he owns more than half of it, that is his right, provided he remunerates the other beneficiaries properly.”

“Has he contacted you as yet?” Sherlock asked. The lawyer nodded. 

“He sent a telegram only two days ago”, he said. “He said that he wishes that he could make it home for the funeral, but of course even in this day and age, distance precludes that, so it should go ahead without him, although he wishes to have a wreath in his name. He does not wish to take a decision on the estate's future until after that event, which is quite understandable.”

“And when is the funeral?” Sherlock asked.

“Next Monday, in Staines.”

Sherlock turned to Miss Ferrers.

“It seems very unfair that you should be deprived of your inheritance, madam”, he observed.

“It was my father's wishes”, she sighed, “and I must respect them. Penny and I had already agreed that the place was both too large and too ramshackle for either of us to live here, even if we had inherited it.”

I definitely detected a certain wistfulness in her tone.

“We shall go to Staines ourselves”, Sherlock said, “as it is the nearest town of any size.”

Was it my imagination, or did the lawyer seem slightly uneasy?

“What is your involvement in this matter, sir?” he asked querulously.

“I am a family friend”, Sherlock said. “Friends are there for the rough times, are they not?”

I was to remember that particular turn of phrase, in light of the dramatic events of the next few days.

+~+~+

I wondered if it was a coincidence that the hotel that Sherlock chose in the Thames-side town just happened to be in the adjoining street to Mrs. West's house, where her step-sister, our client (I supposed), was staying. Sherlock however distracted me with a surprise excursion on our first day there, to the nearby town of Egham.

“I know how much you like these things”, he said, “so I thought that you would enjoy coming to the famous Runnymede. It seems a shame to have somewhere so famous right on London's doorstep, and never to visit it.”

He was right. The meadow in which that most famous of documents, Magna Carta, had been signed was redolent with history, even though it was as wet as I had heard described. Little wonder that the barons had decided to meet King John here; one could hardly start a full-scale battle when one kept sinking into the ground every five minutes! Fortunately the paths amongst the marshes proved to be both drained and well-kept, and we enjoyed our day of history.

+~+~+

The following day we had an early call (thankfully not that early; Sherlock was fully caffeinated) from Miss Ferrers.

“Mr. Peston has been sent some most startling news from India”, she told us. “You will not believe this, but Mr. Fisher's younger son Edward has been killed - _in an elephant stampede!_ And strangest of all, the same message was sent to both myself and Penny!”

I stared at her incredulously. My friend, of course, was not the least bit perturbed, as if elephant stampedes regularly befell people that he knew (they did not, as far as I knew, although in the case of a certain lounge-lizard of a brother, I could but hope). 

“It is a most dangerous country, for all its glamour” Sherlock said sententiously. “One supposes that, as you are technically 'half-aunts' to the victim, that was why his poor father chose to inform you. I really think that Mr. Fisher would do better to return to England, and take up his father's estate. Still, I suppose he will at least inherit much of the money. That reminds me, Miss Ferrers, I neglected to ask our lawyer friend as to the total value of the estate in question. Judging from all the lands that I can see are part of it, even your one-sixth share must be worth a fair amount.”

“Mr. Peston is reluctant to raise my hopes until the whole estate has been assessed and sorted”, she said. “I did not like to say so in front of him, but I always cherished a hope that I might live in a small cottage on the edge of it one day, down towards the river to the west. The roads in the area are very quiet, and I am sure that I would enjoy the solitude.”

“Well, if it is worth a decent amount, that may still come to pass”, Sherlock smiled. “You never know.”

+~+~+

The following day (Thursday) Sherlock wanted to see an old friend of his who lived in Windsor, so I got to play the tourist around that Berkshire town for the day. The good news was that there were no more untimely deaths.

On Thursday. Friday was a different matter. We had called on Mrs. West to speak to her about her late father when a telegram came for her. She read it in astonishment, and then passed it to Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows.

“Dear me!” he said, shaking his head. “Mr. Fisher seems to have upset the Fates by his sudden acquisition of all that wealth.”

“What has happened?” Miss Ferrers asked anxiously.

“Mr. Fisher's elder son, Frederick, has died after being bitten by a poisonous snake”, Sherlock said. “He approached too near to one of those snake-charmers in the streets, and the creature lashed out at him.”

That was odd, I thought. I was fairly sure I had read somewhere that such creatures were usually de-fanged by their owners, for their owner's protection. Maybe this had been an unfortunate rare exception.

“Now it is just Mr. Fisher”, I said. “Poor fellow, for all his riches. Still, I suppose that he can always have more children.”

“You said that your husband is away at the moment”, Sherlock said to Mrs. West. “What does he do, precisely?”

“He is an army captain, serving in India”, she said proudly.

Judging from the look on her sister's face, I could see that Miss Ferrers had seen the implication of that, even if our hostess had not. I tried to suppress the image of a British Army captain going round and....

No. I was foolish to even think such a thing!

Was I?

+~+~+

On Saturday, we met Mr. Peston at the Hall, which seemed to have crumbled just a little bit more since our last visit. I shut the door behind us rather more carefully that I had planned; I did not want Sherlock's ongoing battle with the vile Professor James Moriarty to end with 'Great Detective Flattened Inside Old House'!

“This is terrible!” the lawyer sighed. “Poor Mr. Fisher. He wired me this morning, and said that the deaths of his sons had quite changed his mind on returning to England. He feels that this inheritance has been the cause of his bad luck, and he wishes to sell it at the first opportunity. Fortunately I have a couple of people who have expressed an interest....”

“When did you receive that telegram?” Sherlock interrupted. I thought that was rather rude and unlike him, but said nothing. He had to have a reason.

“Just as I was leaving my house this morning”, the lawyer said, evidently surprised by the question. “Why? Is there a problem?”

“Not at all”, Sherlock smiled. 

He looked around the room, almost expectantly I thought, but nothing happened – until there was a knock at the door. One of the place's few remaining staff entered and handed him a note, which he read.

I had thought that Mr. Bacchus Holmes' face at the sight of his mother coming round that screen in Lincolnshire had been deathly, but this came a close second. The man looked as if he has seen the Grim Reaper himself.

“Is something wrong?” Sherlock asked politely.

“No!” the lawyer said, in far too high a voice. “Nothing!”

My friend narrowed his eyes at him.

“I do not think that a 'nothing' would case that sort of reaction”, he observed. “May I see the telegram?”

“It is private!” the man said. “It....”

I do not know how he did it, but Sherlock seemed to almost teleport across the room and take the telegram from the lawyer's quivering hand. The man tried to snatch it back, but Sherlock stepped neatly away from him.

“'Regret to inform you, Mr. Fisher killed by crocodile whilst crossing river'”, he read. “Oh dear.”

He did not really sound that sympathetic, I thought curiously.

“This is terrible!” the lawyer moaned.

“For Mr. Fisher, I suppose”, Sherlock said. “Or at least it would have been - had he ever existed.”

The silence in the room was suddenly very loud.

“What do you mean?” the lawyer demanded. Sherlock smiled darkly.

“I mean that the game is up, Mr. Peston”, he said. “You see, although you thought when you became responsible for this estate that you would just be swindling two ladies who would be easy to outwit, one of those ladies has a certain relative who is immensely powerful in London Town. And they employed me to ensure that their blood got what they deserved.”

“I know, because I used the time before I first came down here to establish the fact, that you have been defrauding the estate for some considerable time. Indeed, I would dare say that even with the untimely deaths of the non-existent Indian beneficiaries, Mr. Ferrers' daughters will end up barely any better off that they would have been, as you have ransacked over half the estate for your own ends. Although I shall of course make sure that as much as possible of that is retrieved from you whilst you are in gaol. It is fortunate indeed that the female population has shown such good taste and not allowed one of its members to become your spouse, which means that you will lose everything whilst you are inside.”

The lawyer had gone deathly pale.

“You knew that Mr. Ferrers' death would expose your dealings, but you had long planned for that. Most men have at least one youthful indiscretion to their discredit” (I blushed at this point) “and once you knew where his was, you acted. You had a friend, who lived in the right part of India and, even better, had two sons of his own of about the right age.. Your friend sent regular telegrams, possibly even the occasional poor-quality photograph, to assure your client that all was well. And for your wallet, Mr. Peston, all was _very_ well!”

The lawyer groaned again.

“I was so unlucky!” he wailed. “Why did Robert do this to me?”

To my surprise, Sherlock laughed.

“Oh Mr. Peston!" he smiled. “That was not luck.”

The lawyer looked at him sharply. 

"What do you mean by that?" he demanded.

“I have contacts of my own in India”, Sherlock said. “Well, my brother Bacchus has, which is much the same thing just now. Your friend has been under arrest for over a week now, and all the telegrams detailing the terrible bad luck to befall the Ferrers bloodline came from my agents. I decided to toy with you for a while, just as you decided to steal from your own client.”

The lawyer glared at Sherlock.

“Why you....”

I whipped out my gun and pointed it at him.

“Please!” I grinned. “I have always wanted to go on trial for justifiable homicide!”

+~+~+

Somewhat annoyingly Sergeant Pelaw, the local policeman, arrived just moments later with two of his constables to take Mr. Peston away for questioning. I sighed with relief at the case being over.

“It is still hard on Miss Ferrers and Mrs. West”, Sherlock said as we walked away from Ascension House, myself more than glad to be outside its crumbling walls. “They will, initially at least, be worse off because of that scoundrel's malfeasance. But Luke is confident that much of the money can be recovered, even though it will take some considerable time, and he can make sure that people are prepared to wait for their money. Miss Ferrers should get her cottage.”

“And Queen Molly will be officially Pleased with you”, I smiled. Things were looking up, and I had hopes that, just perhaps, we might all come through this dark threat from someone who called himself a professor but was palpably nothing of the sort.

+~+~+

Postscriptum: Miss Ferrers did obtain her cottage, and lived there happily for some six years before she married and moved away to her new husband's home in Lancashire. Seven years ago (1929), part of the former Heath Row estate became the Harmondsworth or Great West Aerodrome. By last year it was being called Heathrow Ærodrome, although all commercial flights continue to operate out of Croydon, to the south of London. Why anyone would willingly risk death by getting into a metal tube, just to get somewhere a bit faster, remains beyond me. These dreadful æroplanes will never catch on for normal people.

+~+~+

Next time, the balance of power shifts again as a new force enters the ring - one Miss Charlotta Bradbury.


End file.
